The Adventure of the Wrong Poison
by Starluff
Summary: Holmes is called out by Gregson to help with a case. (Sort of steampunk AU. Case!fic)


**_This was written for the ACD-Holmesfest of 2014. It was a blast to write! Although the gift exchange is supposed to be book-verse exclusive, the mods were kind enough to allow me give it a steampunk-ish twist, if not make it completely AU. Imagine taking the original ACD-canon stories and injecting some futuristic technology. That was the idea anyway. _**

**_A bijillion thanks (because a thousand just isn't enough) to my mom, for her amazing brainstorming, editing, and holding my hand through my long-word freak-outs, and to Tweedisgood, for the final edit and brit-pick, turning a revised draft into a refined, finished piece._**

**_This is my first first case!fic, I'm so proud of it! The only reason I wrote a case-fic was because of the steampunk; the only way to make it shine in a short story is to make it a part of the plot, and to do that, you need a plot to begin with. So I actually wrote a mystery, with, like, stuff. Hope you like and don't forget to review and tell me what you think!_**

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><p>The day I had been having had been singular only in how utterly mundane it was. I was on my way home from my professional duties, eager for a hot supper and perhaps an engaging conversation with Holmes to stimulate my deadened mind. Even if there was no engaging conversation, I merely enjoy his company and if he chooses to remain silent, I would not mind overmuch. Then I slipped on some unidentifiable substance before reaching our shared lodgings and landed heavily on my prosthetic leg, breaking the knee cap clean in half. I felt no pain, of course, as there was no sensory input in the metallic replacement for the leg I'd lost in the war, but it was no easy feat to get back to the lodgings without compromising the rest of the leg. It was a stroke of luck, however, that I had taken my extra thick walking stick, and proceeded to use it as a crutch all the way back.<p>

When I got back, I was fortunate enough that a maid opened the door, as opposed to Mrs. Hudson, as I was sure the kind old landlady would have harried me within an inch of my life for being so careless. As it was, I was only asked if I needed anything, to which I replied in the negative. I then proceeded up the steps and into my home — shared with the world's only consulting detective — where I proceeded to collapse to the floor. Instead of the harsh, unyielding floor, however, I was met halfway by a pair of arms that caught me and held me steady.

"Steady, old boy." It was Holmes, guiding me to the settee. "Are you alright?"

"I'm as fine as a man who's not entirely flesh and blood can be." My humour tends to be quite dry when exerting myself. "I just need my medical bag, it should have a replacement for this old knee cap. If you could be so kind…?"

But, having deposited me onto the settee, Holmes was already gone, not bothering to hear out the rest of my words as he went to my room to retrieve my medical bag.

It was well into the evening and I had just taken off the broken piece and was replacing it with a new one, when a wire came for Holmes. If there is one advantage to lodging with Holmes, it's his utter indifference to the direct view of prosthetic limbs. Cybernetic organisms are widely accepted in today's society and regarded as a great feat in medical and mechanical technology, but most people don't quite like the sight of a man ripping his own knee off and replacing it with a new one.

"Hullo! What's this?" Holmes took the wire and read through it quickly. A spark of interest lit up in his eyes and a smile slowly stretched its way onto his face.

"What is it, old fellow? Is it a case?" I asked as I tightened a screw.

"I do believe it is, Watson. It's a wire from Gregson, requesting my assistance in his current case in Oxford."

"Any other details?"

"No, the details are sparse, but he states that it should be of interest to me. If I am to be candid with you, dear fellow, I must admit that I crave mental exaltation of any kind at the moment."

"Even if it proves to be mundane, it will at least have seen your person past the front door. I believe that is worth it, no matter what."

"What about you, Watson? Will you accompany me?"

I smiled as I leaned back in my chair, stretching out my leg to see if there were any difficulties. "It would be my pleasure."

"Then we leave first thing in the morning."

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Holmes and I found ourselves alone in a carriage, the view from the window mostly a blur. I've always found it disconcerting riding in a train, feeling as if you are still and the rest of the world is whizzing past. Not a single bump jarred the journey.

"What do you think the case is about, Holmes?" I asked conversationally, squirming in my chair in an attempt to get more comfortable.

Holmes, predictably enough, snorted. "I don't have enough data to form any conclusive theory. You know I detest forming theories without facts."

I smiled for I did, indeed, know and contented myself with staring idly at the passing scenery for the rest of the trip. If there was nothing to talk about, Holmes would most assuredly, not talk.

When we arrived at the station, train blowing its whistle for all it was worth, it slowed down smoothly. As we got off, we found a carriage sent by Gregson waiting to take us to the house. By the time we got there, we found Gregson waiting for us.

"Welcome, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," he nodded at us each in turn. "I'm glad you managed to come." He led us up the staircase to the scene of the crime. "How was your trip?"

"Fine. Now tell me, Gregson, exactly what happened?"

"Well, gentlemen, it is a strange tale. Mr. Paul Gideon was murdered two nights ago. It appeared he had died during his sleep and there was a tiny pin prick in his inner arm. We discovered later that the cause of death was by chloral hydrate. As you know, chloral hydrate is a common sedative used to help people to sleep. A small dose like the one that Mr. Gideon took shouldn't have killed him but it appears that he was especially sensitive to it and died as a result."

"When was this, exactly?" Holmes asked.

"During the night, maybe one or two o'clock in the morning. Now, here is where it gets confusing. Mr. Gideon was a very light sleeper; it was a house hold joke that no one had ever seen him sleeping, not even his wife, because he slept so lightly."

"So the problem is that you cannot understand how it is that someone entered his room while he was sleeping and pierced him with a needle, is that it? Was there any sign of a struggle? Any hint of chloroform or the like?"

"None. Needles can be quite painless, of course, so it is not so much a problem with how he was shot, but how someone entered the room."

"Was he especially tired that night?" I asked. "If someone was quiet and skilled enough, it could be done, I should think."

"Possible," Holmes murmured, deep in thought, "but improbable. No, I think there is something else to this case that we haven't discovered yet."

I very much wished to ask Holmes what he thought on the matter but I held my tongue, knowing how much he dislikes being asked without being in possession of the full facts. I would wait until he had heard all the servants and got everything and then he might voice his thoughts with me. Until then, I would try to employ my own powers, inferior though they may be.

When we reached the room, Holmes wasted no time in dissecting the place. The first thing he went for was the bed, which he proceeded to scrutinize with aid from his glass, from the headboard all the way down to the bottom. Without warning, he cried out, "Aha! What's this?" There was a tiny dark patch on the sheets, a stain of some kind, no larger than the tip of a finger that no one but Holmes would have noticed nor put much thought into. Holmes immediately demanded of the house keeper whether she had been aware of this stain, to which she replied in the negative. He was onto the rest of the room without more than a "hmm" on the matter. He went to the chest of drawers, which housed some personal items and some photographs. These he glanced over, then he looked over the length of the dresser and the floor directly beneath it, angling in what must have been an uncomfortable position to reach all the way into the small space between the dresser and the wardrobe.

"There are marks in the dust," Holmes announced, more to himself than to anyone else. "Now, what could be small enough to crawl inside this little space?"

"A mouse?" Gregson suggested.

"Hum, that is possible."

When he had satisfied himself about the floor, he turned to Gregson and requested to take the stained sheet with him.

"The sheets?!" Gregson exclaimed. "Whatever for?"

"I wish to identify the stain, my good man."

"I don't see what good you could possibly get from such a small, insignificant stain, but if you insist."

"I do indeed."

While Gregson set out to comply with my friend's admittedly strange request, Holmes finally gave the room a last look as if to make sure he hadn't missed anything, then left the room and requested to interview the staff.

I won't bore you with the full details of the interview but I'll condense it instead. The wife was away at her mother's; she had gone a week ago and, due to traveling difficulties, would not be here for another day or two. From the servants we learned nothing, other than that Gideon was a pleasant fellow and very well-liked. So well-liked, in fact, that no one really knew why he had been murdered. Then Gregson introduced a man named Timothy Clarke. After exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Clarke told us his practice was as a mechanic, of some good reputation. He explained that he had been staying with Mr. Paul Gideon for a week now and would leave in two days' time, after Mrs. Gideon's arrival. The day before Mr. Paul Gideon's untimely demise, they had been going over the same photographs Holmes had noticed on the dresser, reminiscing about old times, and then retired directly after.

"Judging from the amount of photographs you were looking through, I presume you and Mr. Gideon are old friends?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, ever since we were children. I, Gideon, and Lorraine were all friends from childhood."

"And you don't know of anyone who might have wanted to see Mr. Gideon dead? Anyone at all?"

"No, sir. Gideon was just the nicest fellow. He was helpful and kind, if a bit loud and boisterous. I don't see why anyone would have killed him, let alone how."

"I see. Thank you, Mr. Clarke, that is all."

"Is there anything else you wish to do, Mr. Holmes?" Gregson inquired. "Do you wish to look through the pots and pans while you're at it?"

"No, Inspector, I rather think I am quite done. What I would like now is to think matters through and see about an errand. I should have an answer in the next few days or so."

"As you wish."

Later, after we were rumbling our way to our temporary lodgings inside a cab, I asked Holmes if he had any theories about the case.

"Of theories I have many. Of solid facts, I have a regrettable dearth."

"Do you really think that the stain on the sheets could be a significant clue?"

Holmes smiled, "You seem to share Gregson's skepticism on the matter. I assure you, if it is what I think it is, it could solve the case."

We spent the rest of the time in silence, as I stared out the window and mulled over the case. When we alighted from the cab and made our way to our rooms in the hotel, I couldn't keep it in any longer.

"But there is one thing that confounds me."

"And that is?"

"Chloral hydrate! Of all the poisons a man could use, the murderer chose _chloral hydrate!_ Why? No one even knew he was so allergic to it, so how would the murderer know he would die?"

Holmes frowned in thought. "That is an excellent question, Watson. But never mind the case for a moment, how is your leg? Keeping up?"

"Doing well, thank you. I had been meaning to replace that knee cap for some time, so its breaking was not too disastrous."

"That is good to know. But now, I must go out again, for I have an errand to do."

Not knowing for how long Holmes would be gone, I picked up a novel and managed to lose track of time. When Holmes came back later I asked,

"Did you find anything, Holmes?" I was eager for some new development.

Holmes, I noticed, looked a bit subdued. I recognized the symptoms of melancholy in my friend and was instantly worried. "Yes," my friend replied, "I have found some important facts. I believe I have solved the case — though if it is what I think it is, then what a tragic case indeed!"

"Tragic?"

"Yes, but let's not think of that just yet. There is always a chance it could prove to be wrong. Would you like to play some chess? I would appreciate the distraction."

Chess is always an enjoyable past time for us and I believe I speak for both us when I say that I could play with him for hours. It did, indeed, provide a welcome distraction for both of us for about an hour, then we retired for the night.

"What are you going to do about the case, Holmes?" I asked my friend over breakfast the next day.

"In regards to the case, I do believe that it should be concluded today." Holmes put some tobacco into his pipe and lit it. He had never believed in the benefits of the electric smoking. I myself usually have an electronic pipe, but I seem to have forgotten it at Baker Street. In any case, it had been a while since I had last had a good smoke, so I took advantage of this chance and had myself a good cigar. This was also why we were concluding our breakfast outside, as opposed to the privacy of our own rooms, as the hotel had strictly forbidden smoking inside. "I have invited someone to come over in order to discuss the small details, and then I shall have to decide what to do next."

"Is there any way I can be of assistance?"

Holmes smiled, "I only ask that you accompany me throughout it all. I have said before that your mere presence helps focus my mind. You are like an anchor to one of such flying and quick thoughts, such as I."

The visitor would arrive shortly, Holmes told me, and as we had no desire to leave the terrace with such beautiful weather, we sat there together, alternating between companionable silence and amiable conversation. It did not last, though, for the visitor soon arrived. I happened to glance up and noticed Mr. Timothy Clarke heading our way. His face was ashen and his countenance one of shear panic.

I turned to Holmes and mouthed, "Mr. Clarke?" and he nodded gravely.

"Hello, gentlemen," Mr. Clarke said nervously, tipping his hat. "You sent for me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, I did indeed, Mr. Clarke. Pray sit down. I have almost accounted for everything and I simply need you to confirm some matters for me. First, I may as well say that I know you are the one murderer of Mr. Paul Gideon."

"No! No! You don't understand-"

"On the contrary, Mr. Clarke, I understand very well. If you will calm yourself, I will explain matters and you can fill me in.

"When I looked between the bed and the dresser, I saw small little scuff marks in the dust, quite fresh, as if something small had walked across inside that cramped space. That was my first clue. Next, when I took the sheets home, I identified them as I suspected: motor oil. So I ask myself, how could a man who is so notorious for his light sleep not wake up when being injected? Simple: if the thing that injected him wasn't a person at all. In fact, if it were an automaton, no larger than my hand, then I think it would do the job quite nicely, don't you think?

"Now, as of yet, I am not sure of your motives but I have a theory. See, I went looking around yesterday and I found an old maid who had been around ever since you and your two dearest friends were children. I learned of the small romantic epic that was centered around the three of you, about two small boys who were in love with one small girl, and the one small girl who loved only one of them. I learned that the father of the small girl, lost all his money gambling while one of the boys was up at university. Seeing as how this boy was currently studying and busy, without a job, there was nothing for it but to fall back on the other boy."

At this, Holmes leaned back, looking solemn. Every time I thought Mr. Clarke could get no paler, he proved me wrong. At last, once he decided his words had sunk in sufficiently, Holmes spoke, "Although, before anyone should get any ideas, I must say this. You did not poison the late Mr. Gideon. In fact, I have every belief that you never intended to do so in the first place. I believe that something that might bring to light the truth of your relations with Mrs. Gideon fell into the pile of photographs you two were looking at the day before. That would explain why you didn't simply wake your friend up when you found out it was missing. So instead, you modified an automaton of yours to be able to go into the room, climb onto the bed and inject your light-sleeping friend with a sleeping draught. Then you stole into the room and retrieved your misplaced photograph.

"Did I miss anything?"

Mr Clarke, who at this point, could not get any paler or more shaken, seemed to come to terms with his own wretched state. "True. True on all fronts.

"But you must understand, it wasn't like that between Lorraine and I. We were in love, you see. Our parents did not support the match as I did not, as yet, have a job. We promised each other before I was up at university that when we were together again and I had a job, we would be married. But while I was away, as you said, Lorraine's father fell into debt and her family pressed her to marry. It was no secret that Paul was madly in love with her and wanted nothing more than to call her his wife. I, in the meantime, had not kept up correspondence as much as my love would have liked. I am not a person who can express himself with words and I found letters to be very difficult for me. I might have sent a letter every other month, if that. So it is no wonder when her family pressed her to marry she thought of Paul instead. Her true love seemed to have forgotten her, while her good friend was with her and lavished her with sweet words so she went back on her word.

"When I got the news, I was crushed, but it was too late for me to do anything. Because Lorraine and Paul were such good friends for so long, they decided it was no trouble to make it a short engagement. If I were to choose to rush back, I would have arrived perhaps a week before the wedding. I love Lorraine and Paul both, so I decided that it would be best for all of us if I simply let them be.

"When I was finished with my studies, I knew I would not be able to live near my old friends without my heart breaking clean in two, so I moved to somewhere else to start a new life. I had hoped to forget Lorraine and be happy for their felicity from the bottom of my heart, but alas, I could not forget her! The few times I allowed myself to visit, I was sick with longing. That is why I came specifically in the time I knew Lorraine would not be present; Paul is still my friend, after all.

"Which leads us to the events of two nights ago. I implore you gentlemen, please believe me when I say that I did not mean to kill Paul. I happen to still own a photograph of myself and Lorraine back in the days when we were together."

"What kind of photograph?" Holmes asked with upraised eyebrows.

"A, er, compromising sort of photograph."

"How so?"

"If I may be frank with you, Mr. Holmes, it is a photograph of me and Lorraine kissing. I should have destroyed it long ago but I could never bring myself to do so. In any case, while Paul and I were looking through those old photographs and reminiscing, the photograph somehow slipped out of my pocket and into the pile. I only realized its absence when I retired and happened to look through my pockets. I panicked and became convinced that when Paul woke up the next day, he would see the photograph and know that my feelings had never changed. I had no wish to cause a rift in an otherwise happy marriage, so I devised a plan."

"Of course!" I cried. "That's why you didn't use a more reliable poison than chloral hydrate! You had no wish to kill him, only to make sure he slept when you entered the room."

"Precisely so. It was not my proudest moment, I admit, yet I could think of no other way. My intentions were pure, I assure you. Paul, as you know, was a light-sleeper, and there was no hope of me entering the room without him knowing, let alone rifling through his things. So I made some adjustments to an automaton I own to suit my needs."

"If you don't mind me asking," Holmes said, "might I see what you used?"

"By all means." To our surprise, Mr. Clarke did not rise from his chair but instead took off his ring. After pushing a button or some such, the ring uncurled before our very eyes into a clever facsimile of a spider. Picking it up, Holmes looked at it with a critical eye before setting it back down again.

"Yes," he said, "I do believe that would be the very thing to create those marks in the dust. But do go on, Mr. Clarke."

Mr. Clarke shrugged, "There's not much more to tell. I programmed the thing to go in and put chloral hydrate into Paul's system. Fifteen minutes after it reemerged from the room, I snuck into the room and procured the photograph. It wasn't until the next morning that I realized my grave error.

"And there you have it, gentlemen. That is my story. I hope that you — you will have mercy on me."

Holmes looked at me in that moment, when Mr. Clarke looked like a washed out rag waiting for our verdict. I believe what he saw in my eyes was but a confirmation of what was in his, for what he said next did not surprise me.

"Then I think that this is simply another case of my failure. It happens much more frequently than Watson's scribblings would suggest. Wouldn't you agree, Watson?"

Neither of us bothered to hide a smile. "Yes, Holmes, I should think so. Terrible to think you failed so utterly in bringing Mr. Gideon's murderer to justice, eh?"

Mr. Clarke, poor soul, did not follow us. But the moment the penny dropped, his eyes lit up with hope so much it was almost pitiful. "Really?" He cried. "You are really going to-"

"We are not going to do anything," Holmes said smoothly. "I can hardly be expected to find a murderer if none exists."

"Of course, of course," Mr. Clarke was breathless and faint. "But, nevertheless…thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Holmes replied.

After Mr. Clarke left, flushed with the joy of life, I turned to Holmes with an impish grin. "You must be terribly vexed, my dear boy, for failing to solve this case. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?"

Holmes barked a single laugh, "I don't think so, not after Gregson hears of my failure. But a game of chess might be enjoyable, if you would not mind."


End file.
